


Dissonance

by apfelgranate



Series: Young Fen'Harel AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub Play, F/M, Frottage, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Rough Sex, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: “Ancestors,” Saar mutters, though she’s chuckling. “How am I supposed to ever get my pants off when you never stop climbing all over me?”Fen’Harel laughs and every light in the room flickers with it, sends the shadows dancing over the walls.“Make me,” he says. “Make me, dragonborn. Show me how strong you are.”





	Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [Reminiscence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4663008), which means for one, this is basically all porn. For two, all you really need to know is that Solas disappeared just as in canon, and a few months later (a very young) Fen'Harel showed up in present-day Thedas due to some timey-wimey thing and the Inquisition found him.
> 
> Content warnings in addition to the tags: painplay, mild choking/breathplay, references to bloodplay, blink-and-you-miss it reference to past shitty consent.
> 
> And a note for anyone who is already familiar with Saar, my Adaar inquisitor: She's cis now. It's been pointed out to me that the way I've been writing her aligns with some very fetishistic tropes about trans women (among other things), so regardless of my intentions, her past portrayal is harmful representation. And since in the very, very beginning I actually wrote her as cis, I thought it best to go back to the 1.0 version, if you will.

“Take that off.”

For a brief moment, Fen’Harel’s smile widens into a bright, gleaming thing, and behind Saar’s eyes flashes a memory of the same smile in Solas’s face, of pushing her entire hand beneath the fabric and peeling him out of it, of catching her scent on his skin. But it’s not Solas, and her hand stays hovering above Fen’Harel’s shoulder, one finger just barely touching the seam of the jacket.

Fen’Harel’s gaze remains fixed on her face as his hands move, as he unties the loose knot of the jacket’s sash, as his left shoulder dips, then the right. The garment falls to the ground to pool around his feet.

“What else, dragonborn?” he asks quietly, and Saar’s tongue refuses to obey her. Her mind trips up on the similarities – the faint freckles scattered like star maps over his shoulders, the sleek muscles in the long lines of his legs, the particular way the skin of his knees crinkles when he stands straight – and gets trapped searching for the differences. The tattoos’ form and glow, the clear skin where Solas was scarred, the dark nicks and marks that have faded to smooth silvery brown on Solas.

Her eyes skip from the bow of his ribcage to the sharp angle of his collarbones, the graceful sweep of his hands and wrists, the line of his hipbone. It is… disquieting, this heady surge of recognition beneath her ribs. And quite suddenly, it occurs to her that Solas had never remained motionless for so long to be looked at, not even to be appreciated by her. From the first time she had seen him naked, when there had been an intent to it other than to get out of their acid-soaked clothes as fast as possible, there had always been a desperate, barely-contained hunger for touch brimming just beneath his skin.

The reddening sunlight catches at the corner of her eye and she blinks, looks out to see the sun glancing over the crest of the mountains, throwing its last light into her rooms. When she turns back to Fen’Harel, it seems as though his skin is glowing from within. He still hasn’t moved.

“You’re more patient than he was,” she murmurs with a disbelieving chuckle. She lets her hand descend, feels how warm his skin is. Slides it over the point where neck meets shoulder, thumb dragging along the groove above his collarbone, along the line of his artery, where it comes to rest on the edge of his cheek, her palm on the side of his neck, and—ah.

“I do not _feel_ patient,” he says, his voice rough. He’s trembling.

She takes his face in her hands and bends down to kiss him. It happens with a lurch in the middle, because habit makes her hesitate halfway there, because Solas had always craned his neck and risen up on his toes to meet her—

And then she’s kissing him, and his mouth is hot and open and _hungry_ ;he grabs on to her, her shoulders, her back, fingers clutching into the fabric of her clothes so hard she can feel them dig into her skin. She lets him go, breathing against his lips, her hands fall to his waist and he makes a desperate noise that sounds half like her name and drags her down again. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her blood rise in her veins, suffusing her body with shivering warmth.

Saar grasps him by the waist and lifts him, and he’s light and it’s _easy._ Perhaps easier than she remembers, she can’t tell, not while he’s kissing her and grabbing at her like he wants to climb her as though she’s a damn tree. His thighs clench on either side of her waist, his half-hard cock pressing against her belly, his legs wrapping around her torso like they’ve done this a hundred times before…

She _has_ done this countless times before. He hasn’t. He will have.

The thought brings her up short. Fen’Harel is looking down at her with glowing red eyes and a fondness that is all too familiar.

“Show me of what you’ve been dreaming,” he whispers.

A bone-deep quiver races from her head down to her feet at that, her blood pulsing between her legs, and she shifts her grip on him, fists one hand into his hair – so long, longer than Solas’s ever was – and slams him against the wall. Traps him with the weight of her body, the breath shoved from both of them. She gives him a grin that is all teeth.

“Do you want bruises?” she asks. “Do you want my teeth?” He pushes back into the harsh grip of her hand as much as she lets him, and gasps when she tugs.

“Oh, you _spoil_ me,” he rasps out, with a delighted, ribbing tone that has something in Saar’s chest seize up.

“That’s not an answer,” she says, low and sharp like a threat, and sets her mouth against his chest. There’s not much for her to sink her teeth into, but she’s made do with less.

“Yes,” he breathes, looking down at her, “yes, _ah—_ ”

He arches with a sharp sound when she bites him, teeth closing around the nipple. Just like she knew he would. And that is— _heady_ , dizzying, terrifying to contemplate, what parts of him she recognizes, knows how to coax into responding, when he cannot know the same of her.

“Again,” he bites out, and she does, works her way from one side of his chest to the other until he’s bruised and squirming in her arms. He’ll chafe his back until it’s bleeding, she realizes; she pulls back, away from the wall and away from his chest. He tries to follow her, clings tight, whispers endearments and encouragement into her ear; and Saar has to stand still and close her eyes and just _breathe_ for a long moment so she doesn’t do something monumentally stupid, like pretend it’s actually Solas in her arms.

“Fen’Harel,” she says, “wait, hold on for one fucking second—”

Miraculously, he does. He doesn’t, however, stop watching her with that breathless fondness, his nose almost touching hers. She shivers, and judging from the way the corners of his mouth curl, he notices.

“What is it, dragonborn?” he whispers softly.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“I’m fairly certain I told you: to show me of what you have been dreaming.”

Saar groans, frustration and lust and memory all tangled up. She stalks to her bed and throws him onto it, which is not quite as easy as she intended since he tries his best to pull her down on top off him.

“Andraste’s tits,” she grunts as she entangles his arms from around her shoulders. “You’re as terrible as he was with this—stay put!”

Fen’Harel gives her a skew look, mouth scrunching up into the shadow of a pout, and none-too-subtly arranges himself into a most inviting pose – thighs splayed wide, arms thrown up above his head, the teeth marks she put all over his chest on full display. Saar stares at him, struck speechless for a moment before she shakes herself. Blighted show-off.

“I meant, what _exactly_ do you want. What _I_ want is—” she says, breaks off. Her throat is dry, and her blood is throbbing in her cunt, makes her dizzy and ravenous. She can’t do this while she’s looking at him; it’s too much like…

“I want to hold you down and fuck you,” she manages finally. “Might use a cock to do it, too.” She wipes a hand across her mouth, distracts herself with loosening the lacing of her boots, starts to work them off her feet. “I want to bite your thighs and chest until you’re bleeding. Scratch you up all over. Find out if you like a hand around your throat as much—as much as he does…”

“ _Saar_.”

Abruptly, she feels the tug of magic around her arms, her hips, reeling her forward. Fen’Harel stands on the edge of the bed, an expression on his face that’s as helplessly turned on as Saar feels, and her lips stretch into a grin.

“You want that?” she asks.

“Yes,” he breathes, his fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. “All of it.”

Together, they drag her shirt up and over her head; it catches only briefly on her horns. Fen’Harel lets out a rough noise of appreciation when he sees she’s naked underneath. She hadn’t bothered with a breast band that morning, not having expected to have to deal with much beyond paperwork and Dagna’s new experiments. His hands skim over her skin, lingering where he finds scars or stretch marks. He lingers a lot, and his hands are so warm it’s starting to mess with her head. She grabs a handful of his locs when he tries to climb her again, pulling until his neck arches and he lets out a ragged breath.

“Stop.”

He goes still. “Are you testing me?”

“Maybe a little.” She noses into the groove of his jugular. “…I’ve fucked too many people who thought ‘stop’ doesn’t count when the one saying it has claws.” She lets him go. “For that matter, you _will_ tell me if you want me to stop. I don’t care how easily you could hold me off.”

Fen’Harel cocks his head, watching her with his red eyes, almost unblinking. He’s silent for so long Saar begins to worry he’ll decide to be difficult about it, but when he finally speaks, a tiny sigh of relief escapes her.

“I must confess, I am truly curious how you have acquired a reputation for recklessness, when you seem to be everything but.”

She shrugs and leans forward, knees denting the edge of the mattress, her chest brushing against his. “I’m only reckless about certain things…” Gently, she draws her fingers up along the sides of his legs, feels the minute tremor it causes. “…Like fucking an ancient elven god.”

“Ah. That certainly explains things,” he says softly, swaying forward to lean against her in turn, his warm weight delightfully solid, though it isn’t nearly enough to make her budge. His arms find their way around her shoulders once more with surprising speed, his mouth right there for the taking, and—

“Ancestors,” Saar mutters, though she’s chuckling. “How am I supposed to ever get my pants off when you never stop climbing all over me?”

Fen’Harel laughs and every light in the room flickers with it, sends the shadows dancing over the walls.

“ _Make me_ ,” he says. “Make me,dragonborn. Show me how strong you are.” The world tilts abruptly and Saar ends up on her back, air whooshing from her lungs, horns digging into the mattress, with the hot weight of Fen’Harel in her lap. She blinks up at the god who is straddling her hips; the god who is watching her with _all_ of his eyes. The air tastes like lightning.

 _How_ strong _you are—_

Sometimes, rarely, Solas had felt like this, when she had spent hours working him over until he could barely breathe: like a thunderstorm trapped within flesh and bones, magic bleeding out from under his frayed control in waves. Fen’Harel on the other hand… He throws his power around like it costs him nothing. Like the Fade doesn’t need to be called from far away, but already lives beneath his skin.

That should probably frighten her more than it does.

He leans forward and her hand moves almost without thought, catches him by the throat. She smirks when Fen’Harel leans into her loose grip, a soft breath leaving him. Her heart is pounding, but its beat is heavier now, slower, because _this_ , this is—

—her hand around Solas’s throat while he fucks himself on her cock until the friction of it on her clit and his noises make her come for the third time, make her lose any remaining control over the barrier spell she’d twisted into the glowing shape between her legs, and Solas lets out a pained, breathless moan, something that turns into apologetic laughter halfway through because she hates it when that happens, wants to bury herself in him until her cunt stops clenching with aftershocks—

—this is familiar territory. She grabs his skinny hips with her free hand and rolls sideways, pushes him down into the mattress, and, for a split second, is surprised to see six red eyes looking back at her.

Fuck.

Fen’Harel breathes her name, and it’s like hearing it howled on the wind, makes her shudder. She bends down, her mouth missing his by half an inch.

“Call me _dragonborn_ again,” she whispers, and scrapes her teeth along his jaw.

“Dragonborn,” he gasps, “please, dragonborn, don’t stop—”

She doesn’t. Rolls her hips forward, hooks one leg over his right thigh to spread them open, does it again. She still hasn’t gotten rid of her pants, but now the central seam is riding up between the folds of her cunt, right up to her clit, and with the way she’s grinding against his cock it makes a perfect ridge to rub against. 

She’s panting now, and Fen’Harel arches under her, head thrown back; his legs are quivering where she’s using her left hand to grip his thigh, claws dug into the muscle. Beneath her palms she can feel his frantic pulse. He’s tensing up, the same way she is, and then suddenly he _whimpers_ , the sound of it high and choked, escaping out from under the weight of her hand on his neck. She knows that sound. It’s the sound he makes when he—the sound _Solas_ makes, when he’s in pain and enjoying it.

Saar’s orgasm rolls through her like a wave, the crest of it dragging a ragged moan from her, leaves her trembling and twitchy. Fen’Harel’s hands find her shoulders, her waist, when she slows.

“Don’t stop,” he hisses, a furious, desperate impatience in his voice and face. Saar almost giggles, giddy with release and wild magic. She steadies herself above him with a hand on either side of his head.

“Beg me,” she says with an unrepentant grin. Fen’Harel growls, tattoos lighting up with magic, and tries to surge up but Saar is faster. She ducks down to kiss him, catches him off guard, and then her weight is on him, one arm across his chest to keep him down. “Come on, little wolf,” she whispers. “Beg me.”

A shudder flows through him, and for the space between heartbeats Saar feels her insides fill with ice when she realizes what she called him—but then his mouth opens and the ice goes up in flames.

“Please,” he says, reaching up to cup her face in his hands, his voice hoarse, “please keep fucking me, dragonborn, make me come, please, Saar, _please_ —”

She gives him a slow, teasing grind of her hips and rakes her free hand down his chest, his belly, her claws leaving white lines on his brown skin. The reward is another whimper, one that has gooseflesh cascade down her spine.

“Getting sore, huh,” she murmurs, dropping a feathery kiss on the corner of his open, panting mouth.

“Not sore enough,” is the reply, and she can feel his lips pull back as he bares his teeth at her.

 _Ah_. The words are different, cocky in a way Solas never was but… She’s missed that. It’s a little frightening to realize just how much.

“Don’t worry,” she says quietly, shifts the angle of her hips just enough that she can reach his cock, and traces circles around the hot, slick head if it with the tip of her claw. “I’ll get you there.”

Fen’Harel bucks into her touch with a keen and a curse and she digs her claws in, keeps him trapped between the rough friction of her cunt and the sharp sting of her claws, and fucks him like that until she can hear the telltale cracks in his voice.

His eyes, _all_ his eyes, flutter shut, and he whines like a wounded animal, his cock twitching helplessly under her fingers as he comes. She can practically see his magic dance away from him; whirl and twist and slowly fade into the world. The anchor in her hand _sings_ with recognition. Watching him is like—it’s like being _drunk_ on power, and Saar’s heart does its best to beat its way out of her chest. It never felt quite this… dangerous, with Solas. Not like she could tear the whole world apart if she wanted to.

“…I’m afraid I dirtied your trousers,” Fen’Harel says eventually, once he stops quaking with aftershocks. He sounds delightfully fucked out, and not in the least bit contrite. It startles a small laugh from Saar, and she pinches the side of his waist for it as she makes to untangle their legs.

“I’ll leave the washers a tip.” She stands up, knees just the barest hint of wobbly, opens her belt and hooks her thumbs inside to push her pants down. “Besides, I think the sheets will be the bigger problem.”

“Oh?” Fen’Harel watches her with a hungry gleam in her eyes, lower lip caught beneath his teeth and gaze caught on the place where’s she’s peeling down the fabric. A wholly different expression flits across his face when he sees the gnarled mess of scar tissue on her right thigh, something between surprise, pain and anger, but it disappears quickly. Saar is glad for it; it’s not an explanation she wants to provide in the middle of a tumble.

“Yes,” she continues, kicking off the second pant leg. “You didn’t think I was already done with you, did you?” Fen’Harel hums, obviously pleased, and opens his thighs without prompting when she kneels down again. On the inside of his left thigh, a bruise is starting to bloom in the shape of her thumb.

“I _was_ thinking,” he says, “that you look very much as though you’re plotting something nefarious.”

“I’m only wondering whether I should go at you with my teeth, hands, or cock.”

For the first time, he seems almost disappointed. “…You would make me choose?”

Saar smiles broadly, anticipation a hot buzz under her skin. “I meant, which one _first_.”

There is a brief moment where he only stares at her, and in the next she has a lapful of ancient elven god kissing her like he’s starving for it.

“Teeth,” he gets out, the word mangled because he hardly _stops_ kissing her. “Teeth first.”


End file.
